Avada Kedavra
by ChaosHasCome
Summary: Perhaps it will be a new journey. Perhaps it will take him to places he's only been able to dream about.


**So this was originally supposed to go in my one shot collection but I decided it would do best alone. If you are sensitive to themes such as cutting and suicide, you may not want to continue on. **

**I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters; I just enjoy manipulating their lives. **

Lorcan Scamander always seemed to draw the short end of life.

Having a twin didn't exactly help his situation.

You see, Lorcan seemed to come in second to Lysander at _everything_. Lysander is sorted into Ravenclaw; Lorcan is sorted into Hufflepuff. Lysander makes the quidditch team as star seeker; Lorcan is beater reserve. Lysander is popular and wanted and loved by _absolutely everyone_; Lorcan is shy and unknown and completely absolutely _lonely._

Lysander is unfairly beautiful. A perfect, chiseled face. Straight, aristocratic nose. Illuminating sky blue eyes framed by dark, sculpted brows. Flawless dark hair that always looks effortlessly tousled. A physique toned and carved into clean lines from the many hours on the pitch.

Lorcan is undoubtedly _strange _in appearance. Baby fat still clinging to a round face. A slightly too small nose. Eyes that are just a smidge to large and just a smidge too far apart. Thin, barely there eyebrows. A mop of thin hair in a motley array of blonds that looks just a tad too greasy, no matter how many times he washes it, charms it, tries to cut it.

Lysander gets all the girls. He rides in on his white horse and sweeps them completely off their feet. His flirting is effortless; he speaks the female language as if he were born fluent. Lysander is never lonely. Lysander is never sad. Lysander is never lacking in anything at all.

Lorcan stumbles over his words in a stutter that turns people away from him. Flirting is as foreign as Latin; he has never understood girls. He trips over nothing and is more likely to knock someone over than he is to swoop in and sweep anyone off of their feet. Lorcan is always alone. Lorcan is always depressed. Lorcan is always coming in second best to Lysander.

And frankly, he has had enough of it.

To be honest, he has had enough of everything.

He has had enough of Lysander.

He has had enough of loneliness and emptiness and that crushing depression that hangs over him.

He has had enough of life.

And what does one do when one is tired of something?

One quits.

Lorcan intends to do just that. Quit. Life, he thinks, has become pointless and it is obvious that he is more of a burden to the world than he is really worth. Lorcan knows what he must do. He just isn't quite sure how to accomplish this daunting task.

He could take a knife and run it along the smooth skin of his wrist and arm and watch as all that bright bright red blood spills over and-

No, he decides, another way. Lorcan knows he will never be brave enough to follow through with something that vivid and real. There is, after all, a reason he was not sorted into Gryffindor.

A potion then. Perhaps the Draught of Living Death. A quiet, peaceful way to go, Lorcan thinks. His only problem is that, as far as he knows, Hogwarts tends not to carry that particular potion on hand for obvious reasons.

No matter, Lorcan knows a much more efficient way to end his life. The only requirement is that he must have the will to complete the spell, the desire to utter those two words.

Avada Kedavra.

Such a simple, short phrase. Lorcan is sure that he will be capable of using this particular spell. It is, of course, illegal. But what will illegal curses matter to him, after he is gone? Lorcan supposes he will have more important things to worry over, if there is, in fact, anything at all to worry about after life has ended. Perhaps everything will just fade away into a soft darkness void of anything but a soothing sense of calm, of peace, of rest. Blissful serenity.

Or perhaps it will be a new journey. Perhaps it will take him to places that he has only ever been able to dream about. Meadows filled with waving green grasses, trees blooming with beautiful blossoms, silver birds and gold fish, water of the purest kind that bubbles over rocks of crystal and soft, silky sand. A crashing ocean with sprays of salt water that fling themselves over the rocky shoals, wonderful fish with rainbow scales that jump and flip and fly out of the crystalline water.

Lorcan quite likes this idea of death. A release from the pain, the ugliness, the _awful cruelty _of the world he currently lives in. A wonderful trade of awful reality for beautiful death.

Lorcan knows now what he will do.

Time seems to slow as Lorcan walks towards the lake, towards the only place of shelter that he has ever known. He perches on a rock, _his _rock, which juts over the murky water. The world is still as the first wisps of light flit over the water. There could be nothing more peaceful than this moment, the moment when nature is taking in a deep breath and everything living on the earth is just stirring, awakening.

The awful irony does not slip by unnoticed.

Breathing in with the wind, the trees, the clouds, the dawning sun, Lorcan slowly rests the tip of his wand against his temple. The wood is rough on his skin. A big blue sky unfolds above his head. The sun stretches, creeping tendrils of light snaking over his cold skin.

A final shaking breath. The steadying of trembling hands.

The soft whisper, carried away on the breeze, uttered with no witnesses, no one to judge.

Alone, just as Lorcan has always been.

His voice slithers quietly across the black water. The birds stop singing. The wind stills. The very lake itself seems to cease its natural movement.

A flash of green, brilliant and unnatural. A quiet splash. Unblinking blue eyes that are just a tad too big and just a tad too far apart. The unnatural stillness of those eternally at rest.

_Avada Kedavra. _


End file.
